


Beauty underneath

by Countess_Hargreaves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, M/M, Sexual Assault, suicide mentioning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Countess_Hargreaves/pseuds/Countess_Hargreaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word."(G.R.R. Martin)</p>
<p>The day John entered his new school, he promised himself to be strong and start anew, forgetting what ever happened to him and just be a normal teenager. But the second he met eyes with the tall, raven haired boy in the back of the classroom, he knew he was lost. Because somehow, love will always find a way.</p>
<p>Johnlock, Teenlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty underneath

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone and welcome to my first Sherlock-ff. First of all, I have to warn you, english isn't my native language, so I fear there will be quite a few mistakes, please, bear with me, I try to improve.
> 
> A few more words of warning, regarding this story: as you surely have noticed, this is AU, since Sherlock as well as John are teens still. "beauty underneath" is rated M and categorized angst for a very good reason, there will be mentioning of severe child abuse, sexual assault going as far as rape, attempted suicide, self harm and much more.
> 
> Please consider yourselves warned.
> 
> That much being said: On with the show and "enjoy".
> 
> And don't wonder - I'm on fanfiction.net too (nearly the same nick) and the story has been posted there too.

**Prologue – Hell on your doorstep**

It was raining – again. He couldn't stand rain. It was depressing. Slowly, hewalked out of the big building. It was June 1st - it should be hot outside. But there were only thick grey clouds covering the sky. He shivered, it was chilly. It had been a while since he had been just outside... They weren't allowed in the open air to often – it would be to much trouble for the guards to watch them.

The bus was waiting at the wrought-iron gate- it would take them back to the real world. He still couldn't believe his time was over. He has been waiting for this moment whole 9 months since the court sentenced him to be here: the Wilkinsons Home, a juvenile facility for young boys.

At the time of his leaving the facility held 734 youthful offenders, all housed in five separated units. From the outside the Home resembled what those who ran it wanted it to resemble: some kind of nice school or university. It was a massive, time-honored block of brick buildings with a cast-iron sign in front of the main door displaying the name of the founder. Trees lined the street leading from the gate to the main entrance causing it to resemble to an antique film set. If it weren't for the large electrified fences everywhere one could succumb to the illusion that this wasn't a prison at all but rather an ancient mansion.

Yes, all in all it just looked like a nice old boarding school for the upper class.

He knew it was none of those things but more like hell. It was not a group of innocent young boys at this facility. Most of the inmates, if not all, belonged there. Some of them were riding out their second or third sentences and all of them were violent offenders. Just like he was. Very few seemed sorry about what they had done. And as for rehabilitation? Don't even think about it. Most of the boys knew perfectly well where the road was leading. And they didn't seem to care.

He didn't look back as he approached the bus with the others. He didn't look back when the bus turned and left the grounds of the facility. And he sure as hell didn't look back when the building of his nightmares was nearly out of sight.

It took them about two hours and a half to reach their destination. He didn't do anything other than stare at the back of the ugly seat before him. He clutched his release papers in his right hand, not even noticing when his fingernails pierced the skin of his palm after going right through the thin paper.

When he got off the bus he spotted her instantly. She was waiting for him- always was. When she noticed him, she waved furiously, a big smile plastered on her pale face. The boy didn't smile back, he didn't have it in him. The guard who watched them on the drive ushered them out of the bus. There weren't many adults to collect the boys, and the ones who came didn't seem happy at all. Many parents or guardians simply tried to forget their sons were to come home again. They didn't want to deal with them.

By the time he reached the woman, he was brought into a breathtaking, bone-braking hug. He didn't respond like he would have 9 months ago. "What is it, kiddo? You aren't happy to see me?" He shrugged, but didn't talk. The woman didn't press further. She didn't know what had happened but even she believed it wouldn't be that easy. They couldn't pick up where they left off. After all, the kid had been in prison for 9 months. Anyone would change. She just hadn't expected it to be so obvious.

Their trip home was a quiet affair. Neither spoke. When they reached their apartment, he nearly choked at the sight. There were about thirty notes pinned to their apartment door. His sister reacted fast and opened the door as quickly as she could, but he read some of them anyway. "Murderer! Should've stayed where you were", "We don't need fags nor killers here", "Scum", "Die!"

"Sorry, kiddo. I removed them this morning, but..." The boy shook his head.

"I guess they are faster than you are, sis." His sister gave a goofy smile and scratched the back of her head awkwardly, but couldn't think of anything to say.

He knew it was foolish of him to think it would go away if he ignored it. Nevertheless, he tried- he tried indeed. He ignored the insults directed at him every time he stepped out of the apartment, he pretended not to see the hating glares boring into the back of his head as soon as he stepped foot upon the street, and he dodged the little stones and old fruit which were thrown at him. And he sincerely hoped it would get better.

* * *

It didn't get better – if anything it got much worse.

Two weeks after school started, he thought that it would almost have been easier for him to just stay where he has been. Almost, mind you. He started skipping classes so he could get away from the stares and whispers; which wouldn't quiet even after the teacher entered the room. His belongings kept disappearing from his school bag, his locker had been broken into more than once, and ugly scribbling could be found all over his locker door.

Then the chasing and beatings began. Other students would corner him whenever they found him, kick him, slap him, hit him, and no one would even attempt to stop the perpetrators. After school, he tried to hide in the old bathrooms in the gym. But they would always find him.

His sister tried reasoning with the parents of his tormentors, but they didn't listen. They just shunned her like they did him.

It was then a plan slowly began to form in his mind. He couldn't go on- not like this anyway. He needed to do something. His sister was having trouble with the neighbors too, he knew. They avoided her because she took the boy in again. It would have been easier if she had just sent him away. But he knew his sister wouldn't do something like that. She would never ever abandon him.

He planned everything very carefully. He knew when his sister was going to be away, so he would be alone in the apartment. Two days before, he bought himself some pain killers. He couldn't get much at one drugstore so he wandered to three different ones just in case anyone would ask questions. Nobody noticed anything. Then, he went searching for his sister's alcohol stash – he knew she always had one being the closed alcoholic she was. It took him about three hours before he found it – after all, it was strange that one would hide away their alcohol supply in the cupboard under one's underwear. But he did find it.

His plan was perfect. The woman won't come back until tomorrow-always gone for the day when "working" - the way she called her alcoholic escapades in other citys. He took a great amount of the pain relievers - nearly all of the three package, and drowned them with the whiskey. It was even more disgusting than he imagined. Then he waited for about an hour. When he got up from his bed he was drowsy and swayed a little on his way to the bathroom. It took him about ten minutes, or so he thought- he couldn't be too sure in his hazed state.

He didn't bother to undress when he lowered himself in the tub. At least he had been thinking far enough ahead as to fill it before he took the pills. The now only lukewarm water nearly spilled over but he couldn't care less. The carpet cutter nearly fell out of his hand as it was shaking so hard. If he was honest with himself, he would recognize the shaking as fear. But he didn't want to think at all. He had made up his mind, and he wasn't going to change it.

He slipped twice when trying to cut his wrist. Earlier, he had done some research and knew not to cut "across the street but along the road", as some might say- but, seriously, it was harder than he anticipated to find the artery. His sight was becoming blurred, he had to speed things up, or he would lose consciousness and then he would royally fuck this up. By the third time, he made a deep gash from the elbow to his wrist, and he watched in awe as his blood poured out of his arm. He wasn't sure if he had struck the artery, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He laid back down, and, thanks to the pain killers, he didn't feel more than a slight sting. He was strangely calm. Deep down he knew something was wrong when he heard a door open and a voice calling his name but right now he couldn't bring himself to care.

By the time the bathroom door burst open the boy was so high he didn't even notice he wasn't alone any more.

"Hey kiddo... Shit – John? What the hell are you doing, kid? What's going on? Answer me! John? John!" John didn't hear the panic but he recognised the voice somehow.

"Hey, Sis... why are you back?", he murmured incoherently. After that all went into a strange black blur.

* * *

It took him two days to wake up again. When he noticed the white walls and the strange aseptic scent, he knew something had gone terribly wrong. He should have been dead by now. But, somehow, he couldn't even manage that. Great.

His sister sat by his bedside, fast asleep. He knew exactly how deep he was in trouble when he observed the brochures for asylums on his blanket. He had fucked up – again.

 


End file.
